Page 104 of The Black Table
But she doesn’t go with any of those.
“…really thoughtful.” She shakes her head. “I mean, you were.”
I just stand there, clutching my towel. “Oh. Uh.”
Thoughtful enough for you to end up getting poisoned, I think. But I know what she means.
And it’s nice.
Kind.
Too kind.
“I think the words you’re looking for,” Gwenna says, with just the hint of a smile, “areyou’re welcome.”
I swallow. “You’re welcome.”
Anytime, I add silently.You are welcome anytime, Gwenna Vale.
TWENTY-EIGHT
GWENNA
The Oracular Curio is a cramped,labyrinthine shop packed floor to ceiling with glass jars, dried herbs, and books with titles likeFung-Tastic: The Curative Power of MushroomsandMoon Sisters: Awakening the Wild Woman Within.
I feel perplexed, intrigued, and unsure where to look first. And a little nauseated from the overwhelming blend of smells.
But Morgan seems, well…right at home.
“Ugh, finally,” she sighs and steps inside with the confidence and direction of a doomsday prepper walking into a Costco. “I needeverything.”
I glance at what appears to be a small, gold-plated bird skull on top of one of the bookcases.
Hopefully not everything, I think.
Sarrasford’s pretty small and humble as towns go, but it has all the necessities—a coffee shop, a dive bar or two, a pizza joint, and even a few quaint little New England-y shops along the main street, of which the Oracular Curio is one: an “alternative art gallery and home goods store.”
When Morgan asked what I was doing on Sunday, I had toadmit that I had no plans, and I wasn’t about to spend the entire day loafing in Camlann House, not after the match on Friday and especially not after my study session with Kingston.
So when she subsequently asked if I wanted to hop a ride to town with her for some shopping, I said yes before even thinking through what I was agreeing to.
And now, even though we’re in what is quite possibly the most bizarre shop on the entire Main Street, I feel…oddly relaxed. Peaceful. Like a normal college student in a normal, charming college town. The sky is clear and blue despite the few flurries of yesterday, the air is crisp and smells like pine sap and woodsmoke, and I’m bundled into a thick cable-knit sweater (black, of course) and knee-length peacoat that have me feeling like Rory Gilmore’s long-lost goth twin. In a good way.
“All right, let’s see,” Morgan says as she produces a shopping basket from out of nowhere and starts dropping things in from what seems like random shelves—little shards of crystals, piney-smelling sticky globs of resin, a few spray bottles with labels I can’t quite make out. It’s such a strange assortment of stuff contrasted to her low-cut, cream-colored sweater and heatless curls, clean girl meets evil sorceress.
“Good to see you again, my dear,” says the woman behind the counter, who could be forty, sixty, or a hundred, with dyed red hair the color of a stop sign and what looks like three individual shawls draped over her shoulders.
“You too,” Morgan yells back as she drops candles into her basket: one, two, three, four. “God, I know I’m going overboard, but I’m literally starting from scratch. Don’t judge me.”
“Not judging,” I say. “Is your room nice, at least?”
She shrugs. “Imagine our old room, but just with me in it, and you basically get the idea. Stuck on a hall with a bunch of third years, but they’ll just have to get used to me.”
“I did,” I say. “Wasn’t even that hard.”
“See,” Morgan says, laughing, “I’m a fucking delight.” She slides her eyes in my direction. “How’s yours?”
I pick up a geode with a sparkling blue center that makes me think of hard candy and examine it, tilting it this way and that.
